


mixed signals

by iftheycare (RedMushroom)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 21:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19472146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedMushroom/pseuds/iftheycare
Summary: They keep holding hands and Crowley doesn't know what to do with it.





	mixed signals

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the most self-indulgent thing that I have ever written. There's not much to say, apart from the usual disclaimer: I'm not a native speakers and I'm not very good at proofreading even in my native one, so I'm sorry for the mistakes. 
> 
> Also, loosely inspired by "I'll follow you into the dark":  
>  _Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark_  
>  If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied  
> And illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs  
> If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks  
> Then I'll follow you into the dark

It starts at Tesco, fingers brushing casually in a long queue, sliding under Crowley’s palm and interlocking with his. He freezes in front of the cashier lady, who has to ask him gently, if not a little bit louder, if he needs a bag. Aziraphale is the one who replies: “No, thank you, dear. We have our own.”

Brightly, Aziraphale brings him out of the supermarket and does not let him go. They dodge tourists down Trafalgar Square, walk through Soho without any comment on what is happening between their connected appendixes and does not part while Aziraphale fumbles for his shop’s keys.

Eventually, Aziraphale has to sort the groceries, leaving an unpleasant cold in Crowley’s hand.

Being Crowley in the same spot for the whole process of sorting and coming back and forth from the kitchen, Aziraphale eventually asks “Are you okay?”

Crowley has to blink. “Yes?”

Aziraphale smiles and offers him a warm mug. It does not supply for the strange, sudden feeling of absence that Crowley is experimenting. Eventually, he turns the cocoa into wine—it does help a little.

There’s holding hands the next evening. They’re out for dinner and it happens again, this time in front of a very frowned maître. Crowley is not losing his tongue, thank you very much, but he has to suffocate a long hiss in the back of his throat before he can think again. “Ngh?”

“How do you find our Porto?”

On the table, Aziraphale has placed his hand on top of Crowley’s. It doesn’t seem unnatural. It seems like something he practiced for years, something he has been doing with Crowley since the dawn of time and he is so tender as he caresses Crowley’s thumb, absent-mindedly.

“Neat.” He sputters, gaining a look from Aziraphale.

“Neat?” he can see Aziraphale’s eyes smiling and his mouth pretending not to.

Crowley drinks his Porto, which is not neat at all.

Later, Aziraphale would not let him go. Crowley decides to play dumb. Despite the lightness in which is all happening, it has to be deliberate, isn’t it? It happens again when he’s parking in front of the bookshop, this time Aziraphale has to look for his hand in order to catch it. In the dark, with the soft red reflex of China Town’s lanterns in the background, Crowley has the unpleasant feeling of a déjà-vu. Except that, this time, Aziraphale doesn’t look afraid. He’s relaxed, bubbling happily for no particular reason, his features indulgent in the edges and makes Crowley want to say stupid things, do stupid things, and he does not and rest his mind and heart to peace.

However, is there that Aziraphale catches his hand mid-air, while Crowley is articulating exactly why they should take that trip to the galaxy because Almost Armageddon puts things into perspective, you know, make you wonder how much you haven’t seen of the universe, and Aziraphale took his hand in such a deliberate way that Crowley decides that yes, there’s so much he hasn’t seen yet.

Once he has it, Aziraphale places it in his lap, squeezing tightly. He sighs and says, “Weren’t you there during the creation?”

_I was_ , he thinks. He has been right there, but not in the stars. Crowley has been appointed to fish. Smelly creatures, plus he has not been a swimming kind of serpent. God likes to make things harder when she could.

“So, you’ve seen the galaxy. Nice.”

“Neat.”

“This only means you are the one who has to take me out there.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Do you want to have another drink?”

Crowley grinned. “With pleasure.”

Later, he finds himself sleeping on Aziraphale’s sofa, while the angel reads on the opposite side, with Crowley’s feet resting in his lap. Crowley’s too drunk to care and too aware to think about sobering up. Aziraphale starts reading out loud, he let his voice nurture him into sleep.

There are different ways in which one can hold your hand, depending on how intimate you want to be. Crowley knows all the dirty ones because he was there when they were invented. He does not bring those up with Aziraphale, though. And this time he’s trying a new one, the dumbest of them all. Crowley’s shouldn’t enjoy it that much.

There is a special exhibition at the British Museum —an old manuscript is displayed, and according to Aziraphale, is one of the golden ones, straight from Iceland.

“Aren’t those pagans?” Crowley said. “Isn’t your side against pagans?”

“Only when they're disrupting the One Religion.” Aziraphale tangled his little fingers with Crowley’s, making a weird hook. “I thought we were not on sides anymore.”

“Have we ever been?” muttered Crowley, flustered.

The whole room is empty. That morning, every human that has tried to venture towards the exposition has been deflected by a sudden feeling of dizziness, of thoughts floating in their heads. Have they shouted the gas before leaving home? Were twenty bucks really worth it for an old rackety book made of animal’s flesh? Have they forgotten something?

It hasn’t been Crowley’s doing.

They are alone. Aziraphale admires the book with a passion that is worshipping, and he’s in pining, deep down resisting the temptation to miracle away the climate-controlled case and taste the pages with its fingers.

Crowley sighs, the case disappears. Aziraphale looks at him, eyes wide.

“Knock yourself out, angel.”

A week passes and it doesn’t stop. There’s a time where a client enters and Aziraphale scares him away while holding hands. It happens when Crowley’s not thinking about it, when he’s distracted and cannot be prepared, cannot anticipate the angel’s strategy.

It happens so often that he grows stupidly _accustomed_ to it. He would reach out for Aziraphale when he doesn’t sense his hand in the surroundings, always retraining himself, always being anticipated by Aziraphale’s gestures.

And then, because Crowley is deemed to betray himself, he actually takes Aziraphale hand in front of a rare books dealer.

He doesn’t need to. It hasn’t felt like a necessity, but they are in the bookshop, Aziraphale is gleaming for some brown-covered bible that is, above all, more arbitrary than the Authorized Copy, and he reaches to one of his gloves hand out of habit, because it’s hanging there, unclaimed, perfectly available for holding.

He realises it after the dealer has given them a weird look. With horror, Crowley comes to the conclusion that he has become like one of his potted plants —he has been conditioning to respond to the proximity of Aziraphale. To fill the distance between their fingers. And it’s too late.

“Why are we holding hands?” he hissed, desperately.

The dealer’s look is not weird anymore.

Aziraphale’s attention shifts from the book. It does not happen often, but there’s always a first time for everything. The dealer is deeply confused and not part of the conversation anymore.

“Well, because it’s pleasant,” Aziraphale says slowly, looking down at their interconnected fingers.

“But why?”

Aziraphale’s brow creased with confusion. The dealer opens his mouth to say something about it since he has not been a fan of hand-holding in his entire life and can understand perfectly the turmoil Crowley’s into. Aziraphale zips him with a bare gesture, which makes the dealer remember that he has parked in a no-parking zone and rush outside the shop, conveniently forgetting the rare book.

“What do you mean why?”

Crowley raises their hands, still together. He’s trying to make a point.

“Don’t you agree it’s nice?”

“No, it’s not that –”

“Then what?” Aziraphale does not look shocked by their new habit.

“You’ve started it!” Crowley retorts, and he doesn’t know what to say, except that Aziraphale is a bastard. A holy one, but still.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Am I going too fast?” then, after a hesitant pause “Does it bother you?”

“No!”

They stare at each other.

“No, in the sense that —”

“No to both.” He fumbles to find the correct words “I can hold hands all day. I swear.”

Aziraphale smile is bright.

“But — how —why —”

“You asked me to move in with you.” Aziraphale looks at him like that explains it, like he’s the true devil there. “You asked me out for a date. I thought, well, if we have to, then maybe we should start step by step.”

Crowley looks at him and regrets having the sunglasses on. He repeats, “Step by step.”

Aziraphale frowns “What do you think it was?”

Crowley does not think. He enjoys the closeness, the casual touching that doesn’t feel like imposing and stealing space, the satisfied look that goes on Aziraphale faces when he succeeds in taking his hand without Crowley noticing. It was nice and Crowley’s a demon. He can’t resist a good delusion when it’s so close to what he desires.

“Are we — are you implying that —”

Aziraphale shouts him up and kisses him.

He uses his stupid, gloved hand to keep Crowley’s face still, like he has been expecting him to retreat, finger pressing on his skin with a force that came out almost desperate. Crowley forgets how to breath but doesn’t need that anyway and frantically reaches for any part of Aziraphale that can be grabbed, pulled, touched.

Finally, Crowley breaths. The sunglasses are crocked on one side of his face, Aziraphale is one inch away from his face and takes his other hand, eyes completely black.

“Just to be clear.” He says, confronting the recent confusion that has spaced in Crowley’s mind “That will go along with the hand holding.”


End file.
